


Transfer of Energy

by WolfOfHearts



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: 99 percent of this is me projecting lol, Central/Volk mentioned, Gen, Jeriah is a canon character with no lore so I went yeehaw, based on the Tactical Legacy Pack DLC’s ending, i hate that dlc but this concept was cute so sue me, is sweater a character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfOfHearts/pseuds/WolfOfHearts
Summary: Central finds that damn sweater. And something has changed.
Relationships: John "Central" Bradford/Commander (XCOM), John “Central” Bradford/Jeriah (XCOM)
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

It feels different.

That's the first thing Central notices, now that he really can take a moment to notice things. He's seated in the dark, on his bed, sweater half folded in his hands.

Something is different. He can feel it— a thrum of energy and life that isn't entirely alien (ha, he thinks bitterly, and then focuses again). There always was some kind of spark in this, that the other items he owned lacked (well, besides his car, but automobiles often had it, so it wasn't as striking). But it feels louder now. Augmented.

Central runs fingers across the fabric, feels for emotions, gets back -

_hello._

He starts, looks around, realizes that's foolish because the sound comes from inside his head. He blinks down at the sweater. That's new. He usually doesn't hear words when he reaches out. Usually it's just feelings. He doesn't think he's ever heard a object use words, ever had one speak so clearly in his mind.

"Hi?" he says, and it's a weak thing - it's been a long time, and it feels awkward to address something that doesn't look human, that isn't human, that isn't alive in the sense of—

_you're still sad._

"I'm sorry?"

Now he senses emotion: a pitying sadness, which makes his gut turn. Before it even speaks again, he knows what it's on about, and it feels bad, to get pity from something that one would assume could not pity at all.

_you still miss something._

A pause.

_someone._

"How are you doing this?" he asks, and it's a deflection.

A image in his mind— psionic energy coursing around, infusing every thread, years upon years of this, the small spark of sentience everything has fostered in the purple glow.

He gets the impression it is thinking. Then: i missed you.

He doesn't say anything back, but reflects the feelings.

Another image in his mind: the Commander at his door in HQ, holding a sweater. The feel of specially chosen knitted garment under his hands, that didn't make his sensory issues flare and scream; a realization this had been why they'd asked him about wool and his preferences. 'Something unregulated', they had laughed, and he had been grateful. The uniform sweaters were so damn itchy.

_you didn't find them?_

He knows the question isn't accusatory, but it still hurts. He swallows, finds his throat dry, fumbles for his flask.

"Not yet," he manages around a mouthful of drink.

A sense of puzzlement, at what he's doing, and then understanding, and then comforting mixed with more pity. His free hand squeezes a palmful of the sweater tightly.

_but you will._

"Thanks for the note of encouragement."

He pauses; something lights up in his brain. "Do you... know anything?" He tries to keep his voice steady.

It's thinking again. He holds his breath.

_no._

He lets the cautious hope in his heart drop heavy to his stomach, swallows again from the flask. "I guess I shouldn't have hoped for anything else."

_hope is good. you are good._

He hmms at that. He doesn't feel very good. He feels tired, mostly. Not good.

There is sense of wanting to be worn from it, that it wants to comfort him in the best way it knows how, and he indulges. It takes some wriggling, and it's a snug fit, but that helps somewhat - it feels almost like a hug.

_it's going to be ok._

"You can't promise me that," he says, lying down, staring up at the ceiling as he passes the flask between his hands, back and forth and back and forth.

There is a long silence, so long he thinks the sweater has decided to leave him alone, when it speaks again.

_they love you._

Tears immediately prick his eyes.

_i love you_ , it says, and it's their voice, and he is crying, wiping his face on his sleeves like a little kid.

False voice rings in his ears, and for a moment he is back at HQ, as everything is crashing and burning, and the Commander is separated from him across the room and the fire, and they have just yelled to him, 'I love you!', and he is trying to call back, say it back because there might not be another chance, but there is too much smoke and he's coughing too much and then there is a Muton and and and —

_breathe._

He takes a shuddering breath. Blinks back to reality. If it is possible, the sweater feels tighter. Grounding.

_breathe._

Another breath, longer, deeper. There is no smoke here. There is not fire here. There are no aliens.

(There is no Commander.)

"But I got you back," he says, and he curls that knowing around the small flame of hope that still burns in his chest. If he could get this back, there's still a chance. There's still a chance. He just has to keep looking.

The sweater is quiet. It just is, holding close to his form, occasionally sending flickers of its emotions across his mind (love and love and love and love and love and love and love).

And that is enough for tonight, to feel that and know it is both from the object itself and from its maker. That is enough.

(He sleeps, and for the first time in years, does not have a nightmare.)


	2. Chapter 2

He's trying not to feel annoyed. He's really trying, he is. Central knows how easy it is to get caught by a purifier patrol and become stuck between Lost and a hard place as the ADVENT units call in backup, and yet as he leans out from the corner of a crumbling building, his chest burns with irritation as he sweeps his gaze across the AO.

It's a few blocks down, where the main street going forward is cut off by an overturned truck. He can make out the forms of Reapers stationed on top, hear the pop of their guns as they fight off the waves of shambling zombies that come from either direction.

Somewhere above him he hears the knock of Kelly's boots as she scrambles up a ladder onto a roof. Across the street, a solider named Peter crouches next to a storefront's dull brick.

Central lifts his gun up and peers down the scope, nails a few of the Lost as they turn at the sound of Kelly dropping back onto the ground on the front side of the building she's scaled. One of the faster ones who's avoided the Reapers' gunfire makes a break down the road at her, only to be felled by Peter.

All things considered, he thinks, they're doing pretty good.

The sweater, silent until now, speaks up.

_what's wrong with them?_

"What do you mean?" he mumbles, as softly as he can.

_the humans you're shooting._

Central grimaces. "They're not people," he says, pauses to take a shot as a new pod of Lost come around the corner, hisses between his teeth as he misses.

_but they look like it._

He feels curiosity and sadness from the garment, tries to ignore the cold stone it sets in his stomach. "They're not," he says. "Not anymore."

The thought 'because you failed' flickers across his mind, and he cringes inwardly. The sweater sends the impression of a person shaking its head.

_you didn't fail._

"Arguable," Central says, and falls quiet after that, because the guilt lodges itself in his throat. The sweater hums in his brain, and he feels it tighten about his wrists — attempts at comfort. He shakes his head.

Peter dashes up along the sidewalk, and Kelly follows behind; they make their way staggered behind each other, and he follows Kelly, ducking behind a long dead car halfway up the street. She takes cover near the front wheel of the automobile, and across and up Peter shelters behind a burned out streetlight.

The Reapers are making work of the rest of the group of Lost that appeared from around the corner, that throw themselves uselessly against the truck, and Central thinks perhaps that's the last of them for a while.

_can't you fix them?_

It sounds vaguely like something he might have said once when they understood so little about the aliens and how they worked, what things they could do. It makes his heart hurt. He swallows the sudden dryness in his mouth and shoots covering fire for Kelly as she slashes at a pair of Lost that come at her.

_you haven't tried._

"It's not a matter of trying," he says, quiet quiet. "And I'm not letting anything the Fog Pods have contaminated anywhere near the Avenger."

The sweater considers this.

_it's still sad._

It is sad, he thinks. It's massively sad. He's seen the child sized Lost, he's seen the bodies of parents curled around their kids, he's —

"Central, watch out!"

He's snapped back to reality just in time to yelp indistinctly and try to use his gun as a last ditch barrier as a Lost runs up on him, but it's still too close, too close for anyone else to try and take it out without risking wounding him, and it's going to bite him, he knows this and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

He waits, realizes he's holding his breath. Realizes he's squeezed his eyes shut. Realizes he's still able to realize and isn't distracted by pain like he should be.

Central opens his eyes.

The Lost is dead (again) on the asphalt, cut clean in two horizontally. Kelly is crouched in a duck, which she wasn't in before, and is staring at him, mouth gaping, saying... something. He can't hear over the blood roaring in his ears.

don't let that happen again, says the sweater. I can't do it again. not for a while.

"Do what?" he asks weakly.

A image in his head: him, seizing up with the assault rifle a poor last effort, and then a purple ring of energy emitting from him, bursting out and felling the Lost along with slicing Peter's streetlight in two and peeling off the top of the car he and Kelly are using for cover.

"What the hell?" he says.

"— what I've been saying! Central, when in the world did you get psionic abilities? And why didn't you ever tell anybody?" Kelly sounds incredulous.

"I'm not psionic," he answers.

"Then what was that?" asks Peter, gesturing wildly with a hand at the streetlight.

"I don't... know?" he says, and it's a weak answer.

"Is now really the time for self discovery?" calls a Reaper from atop the truck.

"Just give us a second!" Kelly calls back, and walks over to him. She glances him over, brow knitted. "Well, it didn't get you, so I guess we should be grateful for whatever it is that just happened," she says.

"Yeah," he says, "but let's make sure it doesn't happen again. I don't think whatever that was will happen again if..."

She nods, returns to her place near the front wheel. Peter is giving him a look, but his attention is drawn away as the Reapers climb down from the truck and approach.

The tallest of the Reapers cocks their head at Central, looks as if they're about to speak, but the person to their left interrupts: "Tail us as we finish going home, and you will be rewarded."

Kelly and Peter look to Central. He hesitates. "Can we know who we're helping first?"

The tallest Reaper nods. "I'm Shad," they say. They tip their head at the left Reaper. "That's Molly." Another tip of the head, to the right now. "That's Roach."

"Roach?" says Peter. "Why would you—"

"Be nice," says Central. Peter grumbles something, but quiets.

The sweater emits confusion.

_but he is right to be puzzled. they are not an insect. and humans don't usually like insects._

"We'll follow you," he says to Molly, who nods silently and turns on her heels. Shad and Roach fall in step behind her, and Central starts after them.

He doesn't hear Kelly behind him. He pauses, looks back. She and Peter are exchanging looks.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asks Central as she crosses the distance between them.

"The Reapers are friends; we'll be welcome there," he says.

Kelly shrugs. Peter looks unconvinced, but when he starts walking again, he hears both their footsteps follow him.

_you didn't answer my question._

The sweater sounds put out. Central offers the feeling of apology to it. "If I start talking to myself, it won't look very good," he murmurs under his breath.

_you've always talked to us_ , it says, and he understands 'us' to be objects in general.

"Not where people can hear it," he answers. "To answer your question, I think it's a nickname."

_but why Roach?_

He gets a sense of fear from the sweater. A sense of… something crawling, something chewing at the threads. The sensation is gone as quickly as it comes, almost as if the sweater is trying to hide its feelings, but it all clicks then.

"You think roaches eat sweaters?"

_moths eat sweaters. moths are bugs. so is a roach._

"Not all bugs eat fabric," he says, and he's smiling. He mentally pats the sweater, which is making the internal telepathic equivalent of a child's crossed arms and pout. "Don't worry about it; they won't eat you."

_i am too strong to be eaten by a human, or a moth, or a roach! i am an artifact of power!_

"Right," he says, a snort of laughter escaping him, and the mirth stays in his chest all the way to the Reaper's rooftop camp.


	3. Chapter 3

He sits in the dark of the tent the Reapers have given them, cross legged on the thin bedroll, Kelly and Peter asleep across a pace away. He swallows a mouthful of the vodka they refilled his flask with, grimaces at the burn as it goes down - he's never been a fan of this. But it works.

The sweater prods at him mentally.

"Mm?"

_you drink that a lot_ , it says. _stuff like that._

"It helps," Central says, because it does, even if it's not… healthy. He hopes he does not have to explain further.

Confusion from the sweater is chased away by concern, and his gut twists as it asks: _it doesn't make you less sad, does it?_

"It dulls it, a little," he says.

_but not enough._

Central takes another drink in response.

_you should sleep. no more of that._

"It helps with sleeping too," he says.

_it gives you nightmares._

"I'd have them anyway."

_you're not making my job easier_.

"Is that really you?" he asks. "You ward off nightmares?"

_i try._

"Thanks," he says. "For trying."

The sweater is quiet for a while; he takes sips from the flask and sits silently in the black, reaching out energetically toward his gun now — he gets a sense of it slumbering, but when his energy grazes it, it does the equivalent of a hound dog opening a eye and thumping its tail.

_it loves you_ , says the sweater.

Central reaches back behind himself with a few hand and hefts the gun from across his back into his lap; he settles it onto his legs and runs his fingers along the gun, up over the scope, down the barrel. The sense of a tail wagging continues.

"Do you talk?" he asks the sweater. "I mean, you and it."

_sometimes. it doesn't say much._

Central sets the gun on the ground now, lies down, brings it to his side, lets one hand rest on it while the other still holds his flask. He feels the sweater tighten around his form.

"Is something wrong?"

_you're shivering._

"I hadn't noticed."

_you should get in the bedroll. it's warmer there._

He makes a noncommittal grunt and complies, wriggling into the bedroll as best he can - it's made for a much smaller man then he is, and is cramped.

He tugs at the collar of the sweater. "Loosen up, please."

_your breath is foggy. that means it's cold. i will not._

"I'm gonna overheat," he says, although some tiny part of his brain is screaming he only thinks this because of the false warmth of the alcohol.

_it's going to snow._

The sweater somehow grows even tighter.

"It's not going to snow, it's spring," he says, but it's a wavering answer. He can clearly remember snows in summer, heatwaves in winter, weather disturbed and distorted since the aliens came.

_can i ask you a question?_

"You just did."

_how long was i gone?_

Central takes a long breath. "At least ten years," he says slowly. "Do you not have a concept of time?"

_a loose one. time is not as important to objects. we spend so much of it in reverie it blends and twists._

"I'm guessing being locked in a stasis tank doesn't help very much with making temporal sense," he says.

_when i saw you, i felt a lot._

"Feeling's mutual," he says.

_you grew up. i wasn't there to help you. you got so sad. you're still so sad. you're hurting._

"It's a lot better now that I have you back, though," he says, carefully avoiding direct address of anything it just said.

_i wish i could have done something._

In his mind he sees fire, sees flashing lights, hears screaming and his own breath. Central shakes his head. "Hey, only one of us needs any kind of survivor's guilt," he says, and he laughs a little, but the sweater doesn't laugh with him.

_do you remember what happened?_

After the fall, he knows it means. The memories are blurry, hazy and pocked with black outs that were not of his own doing. Central remembers… being cold. He remembers struggling. He remembers pacing. A lot of pacing, in a small room, locked in. He remembers needles.

"Not really," he says finally.

_how did you escape?_

He remembers it had been sudden. He had been disoriented, possibly still drugged, tugged along barefoot down dark hallways. He remembers arguing, adamant they had to try and look for the Commander too, and that his desperate pleading had been ignored.

He remembers he had stumbled after his rescuers into the light as they engaged in a firefight behind him, squinting, and was pushed up a ramp by the single frantic hands who weren't occupied with ensuring their escape.

When he realized it was the Skyranger he'd been herded onto, and that the person enveloping him was Shen, and the soldiers that hurried behind him to clamber into the seats as the ramp raised and the Skyranger lifted were the last survivors from the base, he'd dropped to the floor of the ship and sobbed.

_do you think you would have found them? if you'd been allowed to stop and look?_

Central shakes his head. "It would have been stupid, to have us so close together," he says. "I wouldn't have done that, if I was the aliens."

_we'll find them._

He wants to believe that. He really does. He takes a breath and realizes it's shuddering, realizes he's blinking away tears.

_im sorry. i didn't mean to make you cry._

"It's not you," he says. "It's just remembering."

_i shouldn't have asked._

"No, you deserve to know what's happened." He pauses. "What happened to you?"

The sweater gives him a couple of images: first, one he already knows from his own memory— being stripped of his clothes; then the image shifts to being under a bright light, a feeling of prodding and poking; then there is the stasis chamber, and then everything is purple and glowing and endless and terrifying.

He trips up on the last emotion. "You were scared?" It's less a question, more a statement.

_it was not my first ever feeling, but it was my first alone._

"Did it… hurt?"

_not like it would for a human._

"When we showed up, did you know we were there?" he asks. "Shen said you were reacting like you did. It…" He hesitates. "It made me think maybe 'artifact' meant person. Just for a second."

t _he psionic womb heightened my senses. i could pick up on your energy. it had changed, but only in its outer layers - the core remained the same._

The sweater relays the equivalent of a person lowering their head and looking away in shame.

_im sorry i got your hopes up._

"No, it's ok, I … should have realized they really meant object when they said object," he says.

_you had no idea. it was ok to hope._

Central hmms at that. "Maybe," he says at last.

_it's still ok to hope._

"Hope's all I've really got, which honestly doesn't feel so great," he says as he adjusts, trying to curl into a comfortable sleeping position.

_hope is good. you are good._

"You've said that before."

_it's still true. it's always true._

Silence falls between them for a few heartbeats. Then: "Thank you. For protecting me earlier."

The sweater answers by squeezing him just a smidge tighter as it emits love and love and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every odd chapter of this fic feels really good and every even chapter feels less then stellar ... What Does It Mean


	4. Chapter 4

It's just early enough that the sun lights up the sky but still hasn't risen. Central stands outside of the tent, stretching and generally moving to try and keep the cold of the morning off of him. He can hear rustling and quiet footfalls around him— the Reapers are waking up.

"Do you know how you did that psionic thing yesterday," he says quietly, just low enough that he alone can hear it, "or did it just… kind of happen?"

_you were afraid,_ says the sweater. _the not human was too close. and i wanted to do something. i needed to._

"We can figure out what it is and what triggers it once we're back home," he says. "I'd rather not need it again while we're out, since… you know. It's a 'reaction to danger' thing."

_i am not even sure i can do it again soon_.

"Even more reason to be extra careful." The end of the last word is caught in a yawn, and not for the first time (and not for the last) he wishes coffee was still readily accessible.

When Kelly and Peter wake, the three of them seek out the Reapers from the day before, finding them around a small firescarfing down what Central thinks might be Chrysalid legs; he isn't sure and to be honest he doesn't really want to be sure.

Shad offers them some; they decline, Kelly and Central as politely as they can, Peter makes a retching noise. Molly gets up and disappears into the tent behind her, only to re-emerge moments later carrying a bulging duffel bag. She drops it at Central's feet. He prods it with a foot.

"It won't bite," she says.

He squats next to the bag and opens it hesitantly. Good pieces of leather wear end up in his hands, not as good as what the Reapers use, but still useful; he thinks there might be extra gas masks in there as well. Central places the gear back into the duffel bag, zipping it up and handing it off to Peter, who grumbles, but takes it from him.

"Someone will cover you on the way out," says Shad.

Central looks to Kelly and Peter. "Let's move. Firebrand will be getting to the rendezvous site soon."

"We're not gonna eat?" asks Peter.

"When we get home," Kelly says, glancing at Central for confirmation; he nods. Peter looks displeased, but relents and gathers his things before following Central and Kelly out of the camp.

They're more than halfway to the rendezvous site, all the way out of Lost territory and into the wilderness, when Kelly, who's taken the lead, stops short and reaches for her shotgun.

Central follows her lead and goes for his weapon as well, eyes darting around the trees as he attempts to figure out what's got her alerted.

He doesn't see anything out of the ordinary; maybe she's just been spooked by a gust of wind or—

A gun goes off somewhere behind him, and he's dropping to the ground, pain radiating from his left thigh and burning burning burning. More gunfire answers from Kelly and Peter, as his assailant dodged behind trees and returns fire.

take me off, take me off!

"What?" He can hardly get the word out between his gritted teeth.

_i can be a tourniquet! or a bandage! something!_

Central squirms out of the sweater, yanking it over his head and off his body as he sits up from his splayed position on the grass. He wraps it about where his left leg meets the hip, where the wound is; he feels the sweater squeezing on its own as he ties the sleeves together and pulls them tight as he can.

He fumbles for his gun, finds it, gathers it up and staggers onto his feet. He looks around; Kelly and Peter have given chase, disappeared in the trees. He can hear their weapons going off, faintly see their forms running through the brush.

He stands there, glancing around at the woods that surround him. His gun is raised, and he strains his ears, listening for anything that isn't the rustle of leaves or the distant thunder of the soldiers' guns and feet.

If this is ADVENT, it's a really weird attack for them. Usually they don't just send one unit. Usually there's at least 3 of them, all together. If they're spread out, their comrades aren't that far away.

Unless this is a ploy to separate him from his fellows. He leans up against a tree, trying to put his weight on his uninjured leg. He can hear Kelly and Peter coming back towards him, the skitter of boots on leaf litter as something comes barreling—

He fires, one twice three times. The ADVENT trooper collapses onto the forest floor, yellow blood smearing the ground. Kelly and Peter come rushing up after it, panting and eyes wild.

Kelly prods at the corpse with her sword, finds it acceptable. Peter glances over his shoulder.

"Where there's one ADVENT there's usually more," Central says through his teeth. "Stay sharp."

They begin to walk again, faster now, ducking behind trees, pausing to listen listen listen, and wheeling around guns up at every gust of wind.

_this is a lot of blood._

"It'll be fine, we're almost out of here," he says.

_this is REALLY a lot of blood._

As if to punctuate its words, Central stumbles. He shakes his head, but that doesn't clear the dizziness.

_you should probably stop moving._

He can feel his heart thudding in his chest. There's a bolt of panic from the sweater. you're not stopping!

"Of course I'm—"

_ill MAKE you stop!_

And quite all at once, he's dropping to his knees, and the world goes quiet around him. There's a sheen of purple, and when he lifts his head, he realizes the purple is around him. It's a sphere, and from the way Kelly and Peter are banging on it, it's not penetrable.

Central realizes with a half hearted start he's ok with that. He's so tired. He feels like he's going to throw up. But very slowly. Everything is moving so slowly.

_oh,_ says the sweater. _oh what is this_. It sounds distraught.

"You don't know what this is?"

_no! i just really wanted you to stop and then this happened and I don't know how to make it go away!_

"It's ok," he says. "I think it's safe."

_you're still bleeding!_

"But a lot slower," he points out, and lets his shoulders drop. "And if there's anything else out there, I don't think they can get in here."

He reaches down and oh that is a lot of blood. The green fabric of the sweater is off color and soaked and damp when he presses his fingers into it; they come away sticky and red.

The sweater is making noises in his head like it's crying.

Kelly and Peter are standing next to the sphere, almost taking cover beside it. They look like they're arguing. Central feels something akin to bad, but it's like the emotion is behind a wall.

Everything feels behind a wall, emotionally, actually. He thinks he should feel scared. But he really just feels dizzy. And tired.

Some part of him knows this is bad. But most of him doesn't really care. It wants to lie down, most of him does.

_that's a terrible idea!_

"I know," he says in a mumble. "I won't. Isn't enough room in here to do that anyway."

Peter has taken off running toward where the rendezvous point is. Kelly remains by the sphere, staring in at him with worried eyes. Central tries to give her a smile, finds that when he does she just looks more worried.

She looks toward something he can't hear, a conflicted expression on her face. Then she crouches down and presses tight against the sphere. He recognizes this as a defensive maneuver.

There's something still out there.

_please don't die._

"I'm not going to die," he says.

_blood is supposed to be on the inside. and a lot of yours is on the outside. that's bad._

"Well, it's not good," he admits.

He really would like to lie down. He knows that's bad, but knowing doesn't stop him from wanting that. He feels the sweater trying to squeeze even closer than it already is on his leg.

_talk to me talk to me don't fall asleep._

He hears something bounce off the sphere, a rapid fire staccato, and turns to see another ADVENT trooper taking shots at him from behind a tree. Kelly is in a half crouch, gun level, peering around the sphere at them. She aims, fires, misses.

"Do you think this'll hold?" he asks.

_hold?_

"If it gets hit enough, will it disappear, I mean," he says.

_i don't know! i don't —_

"It's ok."

_it's not ok!_

Kelly fires again as the trooper dashes closer, hits but doesn't kill. She switches to her sword and comes around the sphere, behind the trooper, swinging down and slicing. She stands panting over the body for a momen no t before hurrying back to the sphere and taking cover again.

She looks up at some sound he cannot hear. Central follows her gaze. A form is running toward them from the direction of the rendezvous point, turning into Peter as he bursts through the trees. He points up - the Skyranger flies low over the trees, underbelly open and ropes dangling down.

"Ok, now would be a good time to figure out how to make this thing go away," Central says.

_im trying, im—_

Just as suddenly as it appeared, the sphere rolls into itself and vanishes, and Central is able to grab at one of the ropes and be hefted alongside Kelly and Peter into the safety of the Skyranger.

The moment the ramp closes under them, Kelly rips the small first aid kit off the wall of the craft and hurried to Central, fumbling at the sweater.

"What did you do, sailor's knot this thing?" she says.

_don't take me off!_

"Stop," Central says, "leave it on. Flip up this part, to get at the wound." He lifts up the torso portion from where it covers him and she slaps his hands out of the way, applying first a adhesive bandage and then one that wraps around his leg.

She leans back, inspects her work. "It'll have to work," she says, and he hears fear behind the will in her voice.

"I don't plan on dying today," Central says.

"You better not!" she says.

_yeah!_

He would refute, but he's so tired. She helps him off the floor into one of the seats and sits beside him, one hand gripping his shoulder, digging her fingers into him every time she thinks he's started to nod off.

Peter, seated across from them, fidgets. "Is he gonna be ok?"

"If he's not, I'm going to reverse haunt him," Kelly says, and Central hears her voice catch.

"Really," he says, "I'm going to be fine."

"You're not allowed to make those kinds of predictions," she says.

_she's right_ , the sweater says.

"She is not," he says with a whine that some part of him thinks is unbecoming, but the rest of him childishly thinks is very appropriate.

Kelly and Peter exchange looks. "She?" asks the former.

"You," he says. "Talking about you."

"To… who?"

He pulls at the collar of the sweater in answer. She frowns at him. "You've lost a lot more blood then I thought, then," she says. "Shit."

"Don't say that," he says.

"Stop talking," she answers. "Focus on not dying."

_if you die im gonna reverse haunt you too!_

He snorts. "I'd like to see that," he says, and is about to add something about how it would make a pretty funny ghost, but Kelly glares at him and makes a shushing motion, so he doesn't.

He must be slipping in and out of consciousness, because the next thing he really knows is he's in a bed, and his leg doesn't hurt anymore (he thinks it's numbed actually, which is something the GREMLINs can do, so a GREMLIN must have gotten to the wound at some point), and Shen is sitting at his bedside. ROV-R hovers at her shoulder.

It notices he's awake, and flies up to him, blinking its optics. He instinctively reaches up to pat it on the chassis. Satisfied, it returns to Shen's side. He looks over at her and she's frowning at him.

"What did you do?" she asks.

He frowns back. "I didn't do anything," he says. "Bastard snuck up on us and shot me."

"You did something to fuck up Firebrand's evac," she says, and her arms are crossed. "Kelly says it was something psionic, and that you did something psionic yesterday too! Are you a psion? And you never told us?"

"I'm not psionic!" It's more a yell then he intends. Softer, he says, "I don't know what happened. I genuinely don't."

_why don't you tell her? she knows._

He looks around for the sweater, sees it draped on the back of the chair Shen's seated on. He shakes his head at it, but Shen interprets it as him shaking his head at her.

She opens her mouth, closes it, tries again: "Look, I don't really care what you did, just don't do it again."

"About that…"

Shen looks toward the voice, Central follows her gaze. Tygan is looking at them with a particular spark in his eyes. "Whatever Central managed to do down there, it slowed the pace of his blood loss. If it had not happened, he would not be with us now."

A pause. "Additionally, according to Kelly and Peter, the Psionic event yesterday prevented him from being bitten by one of those… things that roam the abandoned cities. This… ability, whatever it is, has essentially saved his life twice."

Shen furrows her brow. "Is Kelly psionic?" she asks finally.

Tygan shakes his head. "From what I understand, these instances solely originated from Central. No outside forces."

"Weird," says Shen. "I still don't like it."

"I'm not a expert on the genetic sequences that indicate psion ability," Tygan says, "but given some time I could run a few tests to determine if these were truly from you, Central."

"And if they're not?" asks Shen.

"Then we have quite the mystery on our hands," says Tygan.

_you could tell them_ , says the sweater.

Central lets himself drop back into the bed and exhales. Tygan takes a glance at his vitals, seems pleased, and quietly exits.

Shen stands up, one hand resting on the guard rail of the bed, the other scrunching a handful of the sweater. "You really scared Kelly," she says. A pause. "You really scared me."

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't be sorry, just …" She shakes her head. "Try not to do it again. The 'getting yourself into trouble' bit, at least."

"You got it," he says.

She leaves then, tossing the sweater at him as she goes, ROV-R humming behind her. Central holds it to his chest and shuts his eyes, listens to the low ambience of the Avenger and the steady beep of the machine tracking his vitals.

_not going to die?_

"Not gonna die."

_good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imagine how is write a decent fight scene. couldn’t be me. anyway the ‘every even chapter is less then stellar’ thing continues to be true


	5. Chapter 5

It’s Kelly who asks, one evening as they’re sitting around in the soldiers’ living quarters. She, Peter, Osei, and Ramirez are playing cards and talking amongst themselves; Central stands behind the shabby couch they’ve set up, half leaning on it as he works on a drink. 

He’s only half listening to their conversation, but Peter’s incredulous “it was the sweater?” brings him to attention. He looks toward the table to find Peter giving him a disdainful frown. 

Kelly nods. “All in a stasis tank,” she says. “Honestly I thought it might have been a person. That would have made more sense.” She places down a card; Osei makes a noise of annoyance and places down one of his own. 

“When has any of these ever made any sense?” Central says, taking a swig from his drink.

“Touché,” says Kelly, “but like really? I mean, artifact of power?”

The sweater, for its part, is pouting. 

_i AM an artifact of power!_

“Keep telling yourself that,” Central says to it; louder, he answers Kelly with “Besides being swathed in Psionic energy there’s not much to it.” 

“I guess he’d know best,” says Osei, “it’s his after all.” 

Kelly looks unconvinced as she studies her card hand. “Maybe the sweater is the psionic one,” she says, but the words end with a snort and she shakes her head. “That would be weird.”

_you’re weird!_

“Well, it’d answer the question of ‘what the hell happened with the Reapers’,” says Peter. He swears as Kelly plays a card, swears again as she sticks her tongue out at him. 

“It wouldn’t make sense, though,” Ramirez says. “Objects can’t be psionic.”

“Have you tried shoving an object in a stasis tank and swaddled it in psionic energy for ten years give or take?” Central asks.

“Correlation doesn’t always equal causation,” Peter answers. 

_but it did in this case_ , says the sweater.

Central says nothing, takes a drink. Kelly is leaning back in her seat, giving him a look he cannot identify. “You think it’s actually got some kind of abilities?” she asks him. 

“I wouldn’t trust his input on this,” says Peter, quietly, in a hushed tone that Central thinks he wasn’t supposed to hear.

“Hey, be nice,” Osei says. 

“I’m right, though,” Peter says.

“Regardless of that,” says Ramirez, “Central’s probably biased. It is his, after all.”

“I just think it’s silly to assume nothing changed after all those years,” he says. “Maybe it’s something we can’t pick up on.”

“Sounds like a poorly written science fiction bit,” Peter says. “Actually, it sounds more like fantasy than sci-fi.”

“This last decade has felt like a poorly written science fiction bit, the most recent events especially,” Central admits. “Like I said, it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Maybe not to you,” says Peter. 

Central straightens up a little, meets the other man’s gaze. “That supposed to mean something?”

_please don’t fight._

“Guys, keep it together,” says Kelly, cards forgotten now. 

“If he has a problem with me he can go ahead and say it,” Central says. 

Peter stands up. “You know what? I do have a problem with you,” he says. “We’re supposed to answer to you, but you can barely answer to yourself.” He waves a hand at Central’s drink. 

_he doesn’t understand_ , says the sweater.

Kelly opens her mouth, but Central beats her to it. “Don’t defend me,” he says, “he has a point.” 

“And another thing,” Peter says, “is your insistence on keeping on looking for someone who’s probably been dead for years. You’re wasting time and resources, have been for a while, and I’m sick of it!”

Central grinds his jaw, but holds his tongue. Osei has stood up now too, has a hand on Peter’s shoulder. He murmurs something Central can’t hear to the other man, and Peter’s expression flickers from angry to sympathetic to angry again. 

“He’s chasing something that’s not even there,” he says. “I’m tired of feeding into this delusional idea that the Commander is still—“

“All right, that’s enough,” says Kelly, who’s on her feet now too.

“You’re all just coddling him,” Peter says, crossing his arms. 

“If anyone thinks they need to coddle me,” Central says, “then they’re mistaken.”

“Then why doesn’t anybody say what we’re all thinking? Why do I have to bring it up? Why do we still let it go on?” 

“Have you ever lost someone you cared about?” Ramirez snaps, getting up and glaring daggers at Peter. “And then not knowing, not for sure, what happened to them? Do you know how that feels?”

“I’m sure all of us have some kind of similar sob story,” Peter says. “I’m just saying he shouldn’t, doesn’t, get special privileges to wallow in it and make us go on wild goose chases just because he’s senior staff or has some kind of survivor’s guilt or whatever his deal is.” 

“That’s enough,” says Kelly. “Go bitch somewhere else.”

Peter walks away, muttering something about how the rest of the crew are too nice. Osei and Ramirez exchange looks, and excuse themselves shortly after. Kelly comes over to Central.

“Sorry about him,” she says.

“It’s fine,” he says. “He has valid points.”

_no he doesn’t! well. not about the commander._

“We’re behind you, Central,” she says. “If you want to keep looking, we’ll keep looking.”

“He’s right, though, isn’t he?” He takes a long drink. “It’s pretty likely they’ve been KIA. More likely than them still being held captive somewhere. Or having escaped.” 

“But knowing for sure would help you,” she says.

Would it? He isn’t sure. He’s never sure. He stares into his drink, swishing the dregs of it back and forth. “Maybe,” he says finally.

Kelly squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll talk to him later,” she says. “Once he’s had some time to cool off. Try to get him to wrap his head around it.”

“Thanks, Kelly,” he says. 

She leaves then, and Central is standing alone in the living quarters, still gazing down at the bottom of the bottle. The sweater squeezes him gently.

_hope is good. you are good._

He shakes his head, says nothing as he finishes the drink. By the time he’s left the living quarters and reached his small personal room, he is certain that no, hope is not good, and furthermore, neither is he.

Good is something other than this. Other than him. 

He sits on the edge of his bed, idly passing the empty bottle between his hands. If there was someone to find, he would have found them by now. 

“Delusional with grief,” he mumbles to himself. “Delusional with hope.”

_you found me._

“And it feels like something from a shitty video game DLC,” he says. “I didn’t find you, I got lucky. I won’t get lucky again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter broke the 'every odd chapter feels really good' thing. i hope its proud of itself. anyway. writing makes me want to yell. that is all.


	6. Chapter 6

Time moves on. 

The tests are run, and it checks out that Central is not some secret psion. The outbursts from Peter get more frequent, or maybe less - he doesn’t care enough to let them bother him anymore (or if he does, he drinks enough to not remember). The years blur into each other, deaths and recruits, close calls and narrow escapes, and he isn’t sure if this is a good thing or not. 

Probably not.

In 2030 (or was it 2029? 2031?) they finally meet the elusive Templars. Their main base of operations is in one of the many abandoned castles of England, which the sweater thinks is thematic, and he thinks is kind of a genius move. Maybe he’s just drunk enough to be easily impressed. 

He turns to ask Ramirez to make a note of this, because surely there are other unoccupied castles and those would make really good haven location candidates, but the resident XCOM psi operative has been whisked away in the moments Central was entranced by the building. Oh well. 

_ill remind you_ , says the sweater.

“Always a sweetheart,” he says, and then nearly stumbles face first into a man who, according to the sweater, has in fact been standing there the whole time, probably waiting. 

Awesome. This is going great. He is definitely too under the table to be doing diplomatic work right now. 

_i could talk for you. somehow. maybe._

“You must be Central Officer Bradford,” says the man, and now Central knows who this is, because they’ve talked before when he was much more sober over the radio, which makes this all vaguely more embarrassing. 

It’s not Geist’s fault today is Unification Day. 

He shakes the hand that’s offered. 

“I didn’t know—“ Geist pauses, frowns at him, tips his head just a bit as his brows furrow. “No,” he says finally.

“No what?” 

“You’re not a natural psion.”

“Yeah, don’t have the hair for it,” Central says, offering a weak smile. 

Geist hums. “Then why do you— oh, I see.”

Central pretends to look confused. “See what?”

“Your sweater,” he says. “That’s where the psionic signature is coming from.”

“That’s weird,” Central says, carefully as he can when he knows he’s liable to say shit he shouldn’t. “Only other person to really ever touch it was the one who made it. And I mean the aliens but they don’t count.” 

There, that answers any questions pretty well.

_you’re so silly_ , says the sweater, but it’s affectionate. 

“The Elders?”

“I mean, that’s who we guess messed with it but we didn’t stick around to find out when we found it,” Central says.

“Walk with me,” says Geist. 

Central obliges. 

They amble down the main hall, and Geist leads him into what he is pretty sure is some combination of a library and living quarters. He isn’t entirely sure; there’s shelves with books upon books, and a chair with a side table and a unlit candle (do they not have electricity here?), and a neatly made cot against the far wall. 

“Someone sleep here?”

Geist nods. “Our archivist,” he says.

“You have an archivist?”

“Preserving the culture of humanity and the way of life we Templars have developed is important to some of us,” Geist explains. “This establishment already had this library, so I didn’t see any reason to deny the request to keep and expand on it.” 

He gestures to the chair. “Please, sit.”

Central drops into the chair. Geist remains standing, and something about this feels familiar. He isn’t sure what, but it’ll come to him eventually. 

_i know_ , says the sweater.

He nods to it in a questioning way, and Geist takes that as meant for him.

“So, this article of yours…you said the aliens ‘messed with it’?”

_this feels like something we did with the commander_ , the sweater says. 

Central feels like he’s been punched in the gut, but manages to keep his affect fairly flat. Geist’s eyes downturn. “Oh, of course, perhaps it’s something you’d rather not talk about,” he says. 

“No, no, you’re fine, it’s ok, I just— I just remembered something unimportant.” 

The sweater clings tighter to him then. He goes on: “Yeah, uh, about 15 years ago the original XCOM HQ got attacked. During the initial invasion.” 

Geist nods.

“They took…” A deep breath. “A lot. Which you probably guess means everything from lives to Earth to uh… this.” Central pulls at the collar of the sweater. “I mean, they didn’t just take it; they caught me first, but they kept it.” 

“Very particular,” says Geist. “And what happened to it?”

“Well, best we understand is that it was in a stasis tank pumped full of psionic energy. We only recovered it 5 years ago.” 

“And yet it carries such a strong signature,” Geist says. 

“Yeah, I don’t know,” says Central, and he doesn’t know, not really. “It…” 

_are you gonna tell him?_

“Whatever they did, it can do things now.” Wow, that sounds bad. Kiddy. He tries to elaborate: “Like, it saved my life. Twice. Once by emitting some kind of energy attack and once some kind of … shield? A bubble? Does that sound like something familiar to a psi user?”

Geist looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “It depends,” he says. “One of the most universal and basic abilities of any psion, induced or not, is the ability to induce stasis. Time moves slower, you’re loathe to move, the shield—“

“Impenetrable?” Central offers for him. 

Geist nods. “Yes,” he says. He reaches out toward Central, hesitates; he nods and the other man gingerly touches Central’s arm. “Yes,” he says again, “I’m certain now. Somehow, this object of yours is able to use abilities that should only be allowed to those of life and living.”

“What about psi zombies though?” Central asks.

“They are conduits, mostly; they themselves do not do anything with the power,” Geist says.

“Yeah, alright, that makes enough sense to me.”

“What’s even more curious is that according to you, it ‘saved your life’. Multiple times even. Which implies it knows somehow when you are in danger.” 

_im a artifact of power, of course i know!_

“They called it a artifact of power,” Central says. “I don’t understand that, either. It’s really just a sweater.”

_hey!_

He gets the impression that it’s frowning at him like a kid. He gently rubs the end of a sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. “Didn’t mean it like that,” he says.

“You talk to your objects?”

Shit.

“Ok, so I’m gonna say some stuff that’s gonna sound pretty ridiculous, but it’s just my belief system and—“

“They have energy, or spirits, or otherwise this conscious something sometimes, is what you mean. A consciousness that can speak… or at the very least be spoken to,” Geist says. Central lets his jaw drop slightly.

“Are you an animist? Or have some of the beliefs? ‘Cause usually folks don’t just know that…usually I have to explain…”

“We have a few who commune with plants, you see,” says Geist. “Which is not quite the same, but the idea can be applied to non living things as well I’d think.”

“Yeah, it can.” He’s smiling now. “I mean, not everything talks - that would be overwhelming and that’s also just not how it works; you don’t usually hear actual words or anything and usually objects only answer if you reach out first.” 

“So you speak to the sweater.” Geist sounds amused. 

“About that,” Central says. It feels like he’s standing on a precipice, and he’s way too drunk to be doing that. 

_ill tell him._

“Can you do that?” He doesn’t mind speaking openly now that Geist has opened the proverbial can of worms. Maybe he should mind, some part of him worries. Maybe he’s too out of it for this. 

_i don’t know. but i can try._

“It, uh, wants to try talking to you,” Central says. 

Geist rests his palm half atop Central’s hand and half on the cuff of the sweater’s sleeve. “I am ready,” he says, but his eyes are…

Laughing.

A stone drops in Central’s stomach, and Peter’s voice rings through his mind, calling out the others for coddling him. Is Geist doing the same?

_if he’s being mean ill slap him!_

“You can’t slap anything on your own,” he mumbles. “Anyway, uh, go ahead, when you’re ready.”

He watches Geist’s expression; the other man looks still slightly amused, and then he blinks. And blinks again. And a look of shock crosses his face. 

And Central feels vindicated. 

“It … talks back,” Geist says, slowly, disbelieving. “They don’t usually do that, if I understand right.”

“I mean, some people hear internal words like this, but it’s not usually that clear and that obviously Psionic,” Central says. “What did it say?”

_i said if you make central feel bad ill fight you!_

“Oh, geez,” he says, and looks apologetically at Geist. “It uh… it feels pretty strongly about me, I guess. Protecting or whatever.” 

He hopes he’s not blushing. Just to be safe, he furtively pulls his flask from his pocket and takes a drink. There, that’ll mask any obvious embarrassment on his face. 

“Fascinating,” says Geist. To the sweater, he asks: “Do you have a name?”

Ah, hell, why did I never ask that?

_cause it’s never been a thing we needed_ , says the sweater. 

“It says it doesn’t have one,” Geist murmurs after a moment. He is staring at … well, Central knows it’s at the sweater, but he still feels the other man’s gaze boring into him. 

“Do you, uh, have any other questions?”

“Do you know how you work?” Geist asks. He frowns as he receives the answer. “No? Disappointing.” 

“We’ve talked about it,” Central says. “It guesses it got this way from being stuck in psionic energy for so long. If the aliens did anything else, it hasn’t told me, or maybe it doesn’t know? I remember?”

_nope!_

“Yeah, uh, neither of those things.” He takes another drink. “Wow, we are really off track. We didn’t come here to talk about my—“

“Absolutely not off track,” says Geist. “Anything like this, we Templars will take very seriously. It opens an entirely new world of possibility. After all, until now, we thought only the living had these abilities.”

“To be fair, this was a really weird circumstance,” Central says.

“I am no stranger to those,” Geist says. 

Central waits for him to go on, but he doesn’t, so the latter makes to get up as he says “I think we'd better get to talking about the stuff we came here for. Alliances, information trading… did you see where Rameriz went?” 

“We should have your companions nearby to make the flow of information easier, yes; I should also have Jeriah nearby. Let’s go find them,” Geist says, and offers him a hand up. 

_aw, you like him?_

“What?”

Geist quirks an eyebrow as he helps Central to his feet; Central mouths ‘sweater’. 

_you keep making funny eyes at him._

“Oh,” he says and laughs a little as he tails Geist out of the room, pausing in the doorway. “No, I don’t. I’m just…”

He trails off, finishes the sentence internally: I’m very not straight. And very not sober right now. 

The sweater emits confusion at that. 

_straight?_

It thinks for a long moment. 

_i mean you do have bad posture..._

“Not what I meant,” he says, and finds he's grinning. 

_then what do you mean!_

Less a question, more a demand, but the kind you’d get from an ornery child. 

“Tell you later,” he says, and hurries after Geist. 


	7. Chapter 7

Central is in the woods.

He can’t remember how he got here, why he’s running, but he smells smoke and hears ringing so he’s running, feet skidding on the leaf litter and tree branches slapping into him. 

There’s gunshots somewhere in the trees, and he thinks he can hear … screaming? He knows those voices. He remembers those voices. He’s alone. 

Central is on the floor. There is smoke choking him now, fire burning around him. He’s staring, frozen in a half crouch in the doorway to the bridge, because a Muton has just rushed the Commander and slammed its gun across their head, has picked them up, has laid its eyes on him. 

His hands are shaking when he fires at it, and he misses. The Muton charges at him. He ducks, as if that’s going to do anything, yelps as he’s slammed back to the floor. He’s alone. 

He’s at the shadow dealer’s house. Shaking and cold and sick. He hasn’t found the Avenger yet, hasn’t found the Shens yet, is alone and alone and alone and alone. Shady knows this.

Shady hurts him.

The world is dark.

He’s cold. That’s the first thing he knows. He’s cold. The world is moving too slowly. He’s strapped down? He can’t move. 

Central tries. He kicks, he screams, he bites at the inhuman hands until they move to jab something into his neck and then he knows nothing except that he is alone. 

When the world comes back, he’s being held down against the dark wood floor of Shady’s house. Human hands this time, and he is kicking and screaming for help, but the drugs are kicking in and he knows he’s running out of time. He’s alone here. He’s alone. He’s alone. He’s alone. 

He’s alone. 

He’s— 

“Wake up!” 

He opens his eyes, still thrashing, jaws snapping at the air. Someone is touching him then, gingerly leading him back to the mattress where he lies on his back and heaves breaths. 

He remembers now where he is (the Templar HQ, in a bedroom) and how he got there (sleeping with Geist’s right hand Jeriah). He lets out a long shuddering noise through his lips. .

Jeriah is looking at him, eyes soft. “Are you alright?”

“No,” he says, and his throat rasps. “No, I’m not.”

“Can you tell me your name? What date it is? Where you are?”

“My name is John Bradford and it’s … it’s…” His heart is racing. He can’t think over the thundering. 

It’s 2015.

(The base is burning.) 

No.

It’s 2020.

(Shady is—)

No.

It’s…2029? 2030? 2031? He can’t remember exactly, but it’s one of those.

What did the Commander always say, always do when either of them got triggered? Something they learned and taught him. Some grounding exercise. He can’t remember the specifics— look, touch, smell, feel. Something about the current surroundings. And breathing. 

He tries to do what he can remember, because they’d want him to try. 

He can see Jeriah, who’s saying something that Central can’t hear over the blood in his ears. He sees a desk and a chair, his sweater and an unlit candle. 

A breath.

He hears his own breathing— heavy and ragged and scared scared scared. He hears Jeriah murmuring something about safety. Ha. 

A breath.

He feels his weight against the bed. The cold air against his skin. The softness of the blanket. Well, more of a scratchiness, really. 

Jeriah is sitting quietly, watching him with sad eyes. “Can I touch you?” they ask. “Would that help?”

“No,” he says. “Please don’t.”

“Ok, I won’t. Do you want anything? Water, light—“

“Sweater, please.” 

Jeriah sits up, reaches over and grabs the sweater off the chair, gently dropping it into Central’s lap. He fumbles with it, trying to put it on, but his hands are shaking so much.

_oh no! what’s wrong! what happened!_

“Nightmare,” he says.

_oh…usually I make sure those don’t happen. I think. I’m here, I’m here! I’m gonna help!_

“I’m never taking you off again,” he says, and fails a third time to get it over his head. 

“Do you want help?” Jeriah asks.

“Yes,” Central says, and he wants to cry. Jeriah softly helps him realign the sweater and properly pull it on. The sweater hugs him tightly, and he rubs a sleeve between his trembling fingers. 

“Any better?” asks Jeriah.

He does not answer. His hands are wandering for his flask; he finds it, realizes it’s empty. That will not stand. He makes to stand up. Jeriah stops him without touching him, by raising an eyebrow. 

“Empty,” he says, shaking the flask at them. 

“I’m not leaving you by yourself,” Jeriah says as Central gets up. They stand, putting back on clothes as they go, and he allows them to take the lead. 

Jeriah takes Central down the hall and around a corner, and down another hall. As he walks, he takes deep breaths, feels the weight of his own body as he follows the Templar into what he supposed is their take on a bar - there’s a lot more seating areas then he’s used to seeing. 

Jeriah pauses at the bar side. “What do you want?” they ask.

“Whatever’s the strongest,” he says, and hands the flask to them. He sees Jeriah frown but they take it anyway and turn away from Central to the shelves along the bar wall.

_he knows too… it’s not good._

I’m not good, he thinks back, and whatever the sweaters says to that is lost as Jeriah hands him back the now full flask. He takes a hesitant sip, feels it burn on the way down, tips his head back and downs a third of it in a few large swallows. 

Jeriah is watching him quietly, hands folded over each other on the dark wood of the bar. “Does it help?” they ask finally, and there is no criticism, just the lilt of curiosity and concern. 

“Makes things shut up,” Central says. 

_makes you forget_ , says the sweater. Its presence in his mind is an aching sadness, a desperate want to help and yet to be so very limited. 

He doesn’t say anything, just takes another drink. “Usually would give me nightmares,” he says after he swallows. “But that doesn’t happen anymore.”

“Tolerance? Forgive me, I don’t know much about… drugs,” Jeriah says, looking away with a slight redness to their ears. 

“No, they’ve stopped because of this.” With his free hand, he pulls at the collar of the sweater. 

“What is the story of that sweater, anyway?” Jeriah says. “It’s psionic, obviously, but I thought only living things could be psionic.” 

Central explains, about how he lost the sweater and how the aliens took it, and how he recovered it again, and about the times it’s saved his life, and all the while Jeriah listens, nodding and “oh”-ing and “hmm’-ing in all the right places. 

When he’s done, he hesitates.

_you should tell him._

“Is there something else?” Jeriah asks.

“Do you know what animism is?” Central asks in return.

Jeriah furrows their brow. “Sometimes a religion,” they say, “sometimes a philosophy… the idea all things have energy or spirit, even those not ‘alive’ by human standard.”

“Exactly,” says Central.

“Are you an animist?”

“Sort of. Not religiously. It’s complicated,” Central says. “The point is I talk to things and they talk back. Not audibly, and not usually in human speech patterns— usually it’s just energy responses or emotions or—“

“You talk to the sweater, then?”

He nods. Jeriah nods back. “And it talks to you?”

“Yeah. I mean, it always did but now it like can literally talk. Like, here—“ He shoves a arm at Jeriah. “Touch it, ask a question, it’ll answer telepathically.”

Jeriah closes their eyes, murmurs something he can’t hear. When they open their eyes again, there’s a pleasantly surprised smile on their face. 

“What did you ask?” Central asks.

“I asked if it enjoys being a sweater,” Jeriah says. 

_and I said I do!_

“And it said it does,” Central says. Jeriah nods again. 

“Have you told Geist about this?” they ask.

“Yeah, he knows,” Central says.

“He’ll want to study it,” Jeriah says, and it sounds like a warning almost. 

_study?_

“Learn about you,” he says to the sweater. 

_but I don’t want to leave you. look what happened._

He gets a feeling it doesn’t mean just recently, either. He takes a drink. “We’ll discuss it,” he says.

“You and Geist or you and the sweater?”

“All of us. Better everyone’s on the same page.” 

“Geist will be awake soon enough,” Jeriah says, “but perhaps you’d like to try to get more restful sleep first.”

Central goes to argue no, but he yawns instead. Jeriah smiles gently, and moves to exit the bar. Central follows, and when they return to the bed, he hesitates before lying down next to Jeriah.

The Templar looks up at him, blinking dark eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“Can I ask you to do something?”

“Surely whatever you’re requesting is not to be so anxious looking over; we did already have intimate relations earlier,” Jeriah says. 

_you did what?_

Central looks away, shuffles his feet a little. “God, this feels so vulnerable to ask, which is stupid given we literally fucked not ten hours ago, but could you… hold me maybe? While we sleep?”

Jeriah, lying on their side, opens their arms. Central clambers into the bed and finds that if he just lets his body do what it wants, it curls into Jeriah’s chest. He feels the Templar slowly wrap their arms around him. 

“Is this good?” they ask.

He closes his eyes, exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s good.”

“Sleep well,” they say, their breath warm against the top of his head. They gently rub his shoulder, small little circles in the blade with their thumb, and he feels his body relax. 

When they convene with the rest of the squad and Geist at breakfast in the morning, it’s no surprise to Central that Jeriah offers to come back to the Avenger with them. For a moment it looks as if Geist will object, but then Jeriah whispers something in his ear, and then he is nodding, looking a little somber. 

Central doesn’t ask what Jeriah said. Not on the way back, and not when they reach the Avenger, and not when he finds the Templar in his bed again and again. 

He’s found something stable. He’s not alone. And if this only is happening because Jeriah pities him, well, that’s ok. He’s not good, remember? 

_you are good_ , hums the sweater. 

He’s curled into Jeriah’s chest again, on some indistinct December night a year later. He thinks he likes Jeriah much better. Volk was never this soft, this tender. Not that he should have ever expected that from the Reaper of all people but… 

_you still miss someone._

When they’re in the thick of it, Central is not seeing Jeriah. He wonders if the other ever notices. He’s not exactly subtle with it, stumbling over what name to cry and biting back whimpers of a title that the Templar does not have. 

_we’ll find them_ , the sweater says. 

He likes Jeriah, Central thinks, but not even they are enough. It will never be enough, until he knows for sure. 

So he’ll keep looking.


	8. Chapter 8

He realizes, when he gets shot as he is dragging the stasis suited form out to where the Skyranger waits, that he never planned to tell the others about the sweater. That he doesn’t plan to. 

He ropes up into the ship clutching the suit, settles it into a free chair and then pats at his side - his hands come back red and wet.

_no dying!_ yells the sweater; he feels pressure increase from where it hugs his form under his shirt. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” he says, and leans his head back, exhaling hard between his teeth. 

Kelly rises into the ship, panting, and the floor closes beneath her just barely before the Skyranger takes off, zipping between the skyscrapers and away from the city center. 

She yanks the first aid kit from the wall and thrusts it at him; together they pull out a bandage, him holding it as she rolls his shirt up and then exclaims: “You're wearing the sweater?!”

“Good luck charm,” he says, gritting his teeth as she smears antibiotic cream on the wound and then presses the bandage against it. 

“You’re insane,” she says. A glance at the slumped suited form next to him. “Insane.” 

_yes! he is a silly man! he should not do half the things he does!_

“I know, right?” She’s furiously shoving the haphazardly rummaged through first aid kit back together, her elbow still touching the sweater. “Smashing the glass of that tank, what the hell was he—“

She stops short, stares at him. “That wasn’t you,” she says.

Shit.

“Uh…” 

“Who the hell was that.”

“Remember how the Templars took my sweater for studying earlier this year,” he says. “Well, uh, apparently it’s psionic—“

“Are you serious.”

“— and it can, uh, talk. To people.” 

She tosses the first aid kit into an empty chair and drops into the one on the other side of Central, throwing her hands up. “I will deal with your psychic sweater after we figure out exactly who or what we just broke into a gene clinic for.”

“Another sweater,” says Central.

“Oh it better not be,” she says.

When they reach the Avenger, the sweater is momentarily forgotten in the rush to get the suited figure into Tygan’s care. Central paces next to the operating table, leaning in as the doctor removes the suit helmet. 

It is them. 

_I told you! I told you we’d find them! I’m gonna reverse haunt peter!_

Tygan and Shen are discussing the risk of removing this chip that apparently is stuck in the Commander’s head, and he knows he should be more afraid, he knows he is extremely afraid, but he still says “No plan B here, people. Do it.” 

They flat line.

Central feels his heart drop to his feet, feels it sink lower than that. 

No. No. No no no. 

Before the terror can set in, they revive, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

He helps get them out of the rest of the suit, gently as possible; they’re wearing a hospital gown beneath it, perfectly preserved. It’s only as he’s carrying them to the Commander’s Quarters that Shen says, “Wait, you’re bleeding!”

“I’m fine,” he says, and gingerly kicks the door open. He sets them down in the bed, and then turns to Shen, who’s standing in the doorway. ROV-R comes over to him, nosing as much as a robot with a nose can at where his wound is, and then makes a sequence of beeps at Shen.

“Fine my ass,” she says, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him back out of the room. She marches him down to the makeshift medical wing, hooks him up to one of the rudimentary IVs, makes him take off his shirt and the sweater, leaving him sitting in the cold as she gets Tygan.

He holds the sweater in his lap, fingers rubbing the sleeves between them.

“I’m fine,” he says again to the empty room. 

_you are bleeding still_ , says the sweater. _that’s not fine!_

“We need to have a talk,” says Kelly as she appears in the med wing doorway. “How long have you known?”

“Known what?”

“The sweater can fucking talk.”

“I only just learned it when the Templars—“

“Ding ding ding,” Kelly interrupts him.

“What?”

“That’s my bullshit detector,” she says, just as Shen and Tygan come up behind her.

“What bullshit are you detecting?” Shen asks. “Did he do something again? I mean, besides smash the tank.”

“I was in a hurry!” he says, a weak defense. Tygan is quiet, wordlessly motioning for him to lie down. He does, grumbling still. 

“Apparently,” Kelly says, and she comes over to him now, snatching the sweater up, “this thing is the one who’s psionic.” She waves it around. “And apparently it can—“

She drops it like it’s on fire.

Central laughs. “It said hey, right?”

“Please stop talking,” says Tygan. “I’m about to start stitching this up, and I want to be sure my work is straight.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Central says, patting at his pockets. He finds the flask, drains it, puts it away again. “Ok, go ahead.”

Shen is holding the sweater now. “I wouldn’t believe it if it wasn’t talking to me right now,” she says. 

“What’s it saying?” Kelly asks.

“Mostly hello,” she says. “Wants to know what Tygan is doing.” 

“I,” Tygan says with the calm of a saint, “am closing the wound Central sustained during Gatecrasher.” 

“It says it didn’t know humans could be stitched up like fabric,” Shen relays. “This is really weird.”

“Central claims he had no idea it could talk,” Kelly says. “I think—“

“— that is incorrect, yes.” 

Jeriah has entered the medical wing.

Kelly wheels around to look at them. “Did you know?” she asks, flabbergasted.

“Yes,” they say. “I could sense it, so it made sense to ask early on.”

“Why the hell didn’t he tell anyone else?”

Jeriah crosses the room to stand near the foot of the bed Central is in, looking calmly back at Kelly. “Would you have believed him? Initially, I mean?”

Kelly hesitates. “No,” she says finally.

“It does make sense,” Shen says. “Can I run a few tests on you? Later, once the Commander wakes up and we’re sure they’re not, um....” 

“Damaged?” offers Jeriah.

“Ew, no, that sounds like they’re a object or something,” says Kelly.

“Sweater says being an object isn’t inherently bad,” Shen says. ROV-R beeps affirmatively. “I think it might be a bit biased though.”

Central wants to say “it doesn’t like being studied” and “I need it to not have nightmares”, but as he takes a breath to speak, Tygan shushes him again, so he doesn’t say anything. 

Tygan finishes finally, and he’s told to stay put and remain in the medical wing, but once everyone leaves he slips the sweater back on and quietly makes his way back to the Commander’s Quarters. He drags the desk chair next to the bedside and sits. And he waits. 

He must have nodded off, because he wakes to the sweater giving the mental image of a child bouncing up and down and yelling: _they’re waking up!_

The Commander blinks, once, twice. They sit up, their shoulders trembling from the effort— Central shoots out a hand to stop them, eases them back down. 

“Easy,” he says. “Glad to see you’re finally coming out of it. Can’t envy the headache you must have, though.” 

The Commander glances around, eyes resting on the memorabilia case, on the photo of the support staff as they were, and then settling back on Central. 

Central finds he’s swallowing back tears. “Not sure how much you remember,” he says, “but things have been hard without you. Lost a lot of good men looking for you.”

He wants to say ‘including myself’ but that seems too depressing for the situation. The sweater pouts at him for thinking this. 

_hope is good._

“Never gave up hope you were out there,” he says, “but I’ll be honest, there were… considerable number of nights where I got close.” 

He shakes himself, turns toward the computer that hums away on the desk across the room. “When you’re ready, Shen’s got our archives pulled up on your machine.” 

He begins to stand up, but the Commander’s hand reaches out and grips at his, pulls him back down. 

They’re crying.

_oh no. they’re not supposed to cry. you’re not supposed to cry. this is a happy time. you’re happy aren’t you?_

Central swallows again, blinks away the water in his eyes. “I am unbelievably happy,” he says. “It’s good to have you back, Commander.”

The Commander coughs.

There’s water by the bedside; Central grabs it and offers it to them. They struggle to hold it up, nearly dropping - must be the atrophy, he thinks bitterly - and he leans in a hand to help, holding it steady as they take a long drink. 

They weakly motion for him to put the water away. Once that’s done they cough again. 

Then: “How long did you say? 20 years?” Their voice is disbelieving.

“20 years,” he says because there’s no sugar coating it. 

“You look older,” they say, glancing at him up and down. “That’s the sweater I made you, though.”

“Funny story, about the sweater,” he says, and explains it to them. Before he reaches the bit about it talking, though, they reach out and hold a handful of sleeve in their small hands.

“Hello,” they say.

_hello! it’s been a long time!_

He gets the sense that the sweater is akin to a wiggling puppy, wagging tail and all. The Commander must get it too, because they laugh. 

Central remembers then that they have animist beliefs too, and that furthermore, they’re a psion. Of course they’d know. 

The Commander’s hand lets go of the sweater and drifts back into his. They’re smiling at him. 

The tears come finally, and he is reduced to sobbing all at once, shoulders shaking and breath hot between the choked cries. 

He is holding them, and they are holding him, and the sweater is holding him too, and he is not alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that’s a wrap. I’m not done with this verse tho, there will probably be more sweater content eventually


End file.
